The five stages of caring
by nerwende90
Summary: Because learning how to care is not so different from learning how to cope. Spoilers for "The hounds of Baskerville", set before "The Reichenbach fall"


**Stage one: denial**

He rushes back to the flat, only to stop dead in his tracks, unable to tear his eyes away from the yellow symbols spray-painted on his windows. He doesn't even need to search the flat to know it's been robbed of all occupants. He only stays there for a few seconds, but they feel like lead-weighted centuries when he can't bloody _move_. Then someone flips an invisible switch and he springs into action, running out the door for the second time in only a handful of minutes.

It's adrenaline, he tells himself later when John's dozed off in his chair and Sarah is at home. He was experiencing the trepidation of the case, and the abduction of his flat mate was just another stimulant added to the mix. He froze out of surprise, not out of worry.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't worry about anyone.

* * *

><p><strong>Stage two: anger<strong>

The pit in his stomach as John walks into the swimming pool is by no means betrayal. You need to care in order to feel betrayed, and a sociopath doesn't care, not even a high functioning one. No, he's only shocked because he didn't see that coming, nothing more.

What puzzles him is the cold feeling that settles in his guts as John slowly opens his jacket to reveal an assortment of explosives while speaking in the same – thought calmer – mechanical voice the other victims had. Sherlock can see how scared John is, even as he tries to hide it, and he can't help the feeling of wrongness that seizes him. This shouldn't be happening, not to John.

_Why not?_

_Because it's not right._

_It wasn't right for the others either._

_It's different._

_How?_

_Because it's John._

He's used to these inner debates, but that last thought takes him by surprise. What was that supposed to mean? The other people, one of them a child, had no more deserved it than John. Why would it be any different? Try as he might, Sherlock just can't understand. Neither can he fathom why, when Moriarty leaves for the first time, he chooses to rip the jacket off of John before going after his enemy. Clearly John could have done it himself, so why does he bother? And why the hell are his hands shaking so much?

Later on, when John's in his bed pretending to sleep but actually going over each details of what happened and carefully planning very creative ways to kill Moriarty, Sherlock is playing his violin like he's actually trying to saw it in half with the bow. A rage, like nothing he's felt before, is coursing through him. Not against Moriarty, not against John – though he strongly suspects his flat mate has a lot to do with it – but against himself, for reacting the way he did. He's Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake! He doesn't just freeze, let alone panic when his colleague is in danger!

_Get a grip, Holmes!_

* * *

><p><strong>Stage three: bargain<strong>

Staring at the leader of the little gang that's just burst into the room did nothing to upset him. After all, it's not the first time his life's being threatened, and the whole gun thing really isn't all that imaginative, if he has to say so himself.

What he doesn't expect though is the leader's next words to his henchman.

"On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson!"

And all of a sudden he feels like someone's punched him in the guts. He's not too proud of the way his voice cracks when he speaks, of how he's talking faster and louder than usual, just like regular people do when they're scared.

He's not scared. He can't be.

_It's not you they're threatening to shoot._

_I know._

_Then why does it upset you?_

_Because they can't kill John._

_Of course they can, it's very feasible._

_That's not what I mean._

_They probably will, too._

_I don't want them to._

When he meets up with Mycroft at the hospital that evening, he's got the unpleasant feeling that he's once again a five year old boy relying on his brother to solve his problems. Still, he can't bring himself to actually say that he, the great Sherlock Holmes, had shown increasing signs of emotions these past months. Instead he settles for a casual question, knowing it's not fooling his brother anyway.

"Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage... Sherlock."

He knows that, he knows that all too well. Sitting in the backseat of the cab, he vows to himself he will never smoke or do drugs again if his mind could just please stop all this… whatever it is it's doing.

* * *

><p><strong>Stage four: depression<strong>

He's running through the woods with Henry, trying to make sense of what the hysterical man is babbling about, while trying to ignore the howling in the darkness. He doesn't believe in the whole evil beast theory, but he's not exactly willing to get mauled by a wolf either, thank you very much.

It takes him longer than it should to notice something's amiss, but when he does his heart – what do you know, he does have one after all – skips a beat.

John isn't following him anymore.

_Where is he?_

_He was right behind me._

_Then what happened?_

_I don't know._

_Maybe something got to him._

_No._

_Why not? It's a possibility._

_Nothing got to him._

_How do you know?_

_Because I know._

Sherlock whips around, the only thing preventing him to call out being the persistent threat of a flesh-eating creature. He considers calling John's mobile, but the mere ringing of his phone could mean his blogger's death. Beside him Henry's rambling on even faster than usual, asking why Sherlock's stopped and begging him to please, please, tell him what's wrong.

Just as Sherlock turns around to tell him to shut up in a not too gentle way, he hears running footsteps in the distance. He holds his breath, and it's all he can do not to let out a sigh of relief as he recognizes the familiar pace. Turning back to Henry, he simply nods his head to indicate that they can keep going.

It surprises him, how much it gets to him. He's lost control, he knows it. Frustration and bitterness fight for dominance inside him, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Anyone would tell him that growing feelings is a good thing, but to him it feels damn close to a loss.

* * *

><p><strong>Stage five: acceptance<strong>

And it's a good thing too, because it's starting to get on his nerves. The thing is, this time, no one's really in danger, so why on earth should he worry? And yet there he is, sitting on his bed, wondering how on earth he could get out of this situation.

He knows he wasn't in his right mind the previous night, he knows he's been given something that made him freak out. But still, no matter what he does, he can't wrap his mind around what he said to John, or the impact his words had on him.

"_I don't have friends!"_

The hurt and betrayal had only flashed in John's eyes for a second before he skipped to anger, but Sherlock, He Who Sees Everything, had noticed, and now there's an unpleasant sensation in his chest as it crosses his mind.

He decides to test the waters by sending John texts, asking him to interview the therapist, and while he doesn't get a reply, he takes it as a good omen that John doesn't just tell him to go to hell. But when they meet in the morning, John is wearing his best I-did-what-you-asked-but-I'm-still-mad-at-you look. Explaining himself is not easy – and some distant part of his brain wonders why he even tries – and John is clearly not in the mood, so of course the doctor walks away.

_So? Let him. What does it matter?_

_I don't want him to think I hate him._

_Everybody thinks you hate them._

_He's not everybody._

"Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it" Sherlock blurts out, almost regretting it. But then John stops and turns around, wearing the same look he did last night, and somehow it spurs him on. "I don't have friends." He says, coming to the realization even as he voices it, "I've just got one."

John doesn't answer right away, and when he does he just starts walking again but that's alright. Sherlock knows he's forgiven already. And no matter how hard he tries, he can't suppress the feeling of relief that floods through him.

_Now you're just being ridic—_

_Shut up._

The end.

* * *

><p><strong>First story in this fandom. What do you think?<strong>

**nerwende**


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